An Experiment in Love
by wanderingmindstravelfar
Summary: A follow up to 'The Final Problem'. What if the conversation with Molly had ended differently? How would Sherlock cope with the repercussions of losing his favorite pathologist? In the aftermath of Euros' game, Sherlock quickly realizes that things are not as they seem. Sherlock/Molly
1. Chapter 1

"I-" Sherlock stutters, realizing he can't remember the last time he'd let himself love anyone, much less admit it aloud. "I… love you," he finally manages unconvincingly. However, as soon as the words leave his lips, Sherlock feels as if an unspoken weight has been lifted off his shoulders. "I love you," he repeats, this time almost eager to expunge his feelings. However his relief is short-lived when he quickly becomes aware of the haunting silence on the other side of the line.

"Molly?"

Nothing. He can see the willpower in her eyes as she holds the phone away from her face. Four seconds on the clock.

"Molly, please," he pleads with desperate sincerity. Three seconds.

Sherlock can't help but hold his breath as his eyes shift back and forth from her to the countdown. "Molly!" Two seconds.

"I-"

The pathologist's voice is cut off as the feed suddenly dissolves into white noise.

"Christ," Watson expels, turning away from the screen as if to avert his eyes from the carnage of their failure.

"No. No!" Sherlock brings his hands to his head in horror and disbelief. "She," he pauses, taking a long breath. "She was going to say it…"

"Oh… certainly you don't believe that Sherlock," Euros remarks with contempt.

"What have you done?" her brother mutters quietly, his eyes rimmed with red. "Oh God, what have you done?!"

"Now, now Sherlock," his sister goads. "It isn't _my_ fault Miss Hooper is dead. It's _yours_." Her voice rings with twisted delight. "Do you know why she wouldn't say those words to you?"

"Stop it," John orders Euros firmly, unsettled by the pain which was now evident in his best friend's expression.

"Because you've been killing her slowly for years… Every time you ignored her, dismissed her, insulted her-"

"I said _stop it_!" John insists, but to no avail.

"She resented you and your inability to feel. So she built a wall, Sherlock… she built a wall to block out the pain. And do you know what?" Euros asks with enthusiasm. "It worked. She isn't feeling a thing anymore. It's you who's left to deal with all the messy little emotions. You always were the vulnerable one…"

Sherlock cringes as his mind travels back to his various encounters with Molly Hooper over the years. Silent tears spill out of his red-rimmed eyes and tumble slowly down his long face.

"Sherlock, don't listen to her," John orders. "This is not your fault. Somehow we-" he swallows, as if first convincing himself of the words before uttering them. "We are going to get through this. We're going to soldier on."

"What are you feeling Sherlock?" Euros asks curiously. "Grief? Shame? Guilt?"

The detective swallows his emotions to the best of his ability, stealing a quick glance at his brother, who'd been standing silently in the corner throughout the whole ordeal. And for a brief moment, Sherlock wondered whether Mycroft "the smart one" Holmes could even comprehend the pain of what had just unfolded before them.

"Alright boys, onward we go," Euros coaxes, opening a door for them to pass through. "On your own time of course."

John and Mycroft slowly make their way to the door, unsure how else to continue. Sherlock stays put and leisurely reaches for the lid to the coffin. He places it tenderly upon the empty casket and stares at the words which would now haunt him for the rest of his life.

" _I love you_."

His fingers pass lightly over the etched letters, trembling uncontrollably.

"No," Sherlock utters simply, his heartache quickly devolving into to anger. "No, no, no!" He raises both fists in the air and brings them down on the coffin with such force that the wood splits. But he doesn't stop there. Like a child with irrepressible rage, Sherlock strikes the coffin repeatedly until it's smashed to bits on the floor before him. And when there's nothing left to hit, Sherlock collapses against the nearest wall, sinking to the floor and covering his face in frustration.

Euros grins at her brother's inability to suppress his emotions. The old Sherlock- the Sherlock she'd loved to torment as a child- was returning.

John couldn't stand seeing his comrade lose himself so completely, and it was quite a few minutes before the detective regained the illusion of composure.

"Sherlock," Watson finally interrupts. "I know this is-" he struggles to find an appropriate adjective. "Well, I don't know _what_ this is anymore…"

"This is vivisection," Sherlock informs him matter-of-factly. "We are experiencing science from the perspective of lab rats."

"I know," John acknowledges. "And I know you're hurting. I am too. Molly was a dear friend. But she believed in you Sherlock-"

"She shouldn't have," Sherlock interrupts sharply, the self-loathing evident in his voice.

"Oh God no, that's not what I- What I meant was… she wouldn't want you to give up," John clarifies. "Today we're soldiers, remember? Now, let's see this through, eh? For Molly?"

Watson holds outs his hand, offering to help Sherlock up from where he was seated on the floor.

The detective meets his steady gaze with hesitation, but accepts the invitation.

"For Molly," Sherlock agrees.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Five hours later…**_

"Greg," Sherlock pulls Lestrade aside with urgency. "Molly Hooper," he says breathlessly. "Euros rigged her flat with explosives and set them off hours ago."

"Jesus," Lestrade mutters with surprise, bringing his hand to his mouth.

Sherlock furrows his brow. "You hadn't heard anything about it then?"

"No, I had no idea. Nothing like that's been brought through the Yard today. But I'll send my best men over now to check it out."

Sherlock nods thoughtfully as Lestrade steps away and speaks into his radio. His phone pings as John joins him at his side.

"Mycroft?" John guesses.

"Of course it's Mycroft," Sherlock remarks uninterestedly. "That's the third text in an hour. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was actually worried about me."

"Are you alright?" Watson asks.

"I'm alive, aren't I?" Sherlock answers vaguely.

"Right, but that's not really what I asked now, is it?"

"I'm fine," the detective insists, his voice laced with impatience.

 _Typical_. John shakes his head in disappointment. He'd really thought Sherlock would open up after all they'd been through in the past twelve hours.

"I know it's difficult for you, but if you want to talk about it-"

"I have to go," Sherlock announces. He seems lost. Distracted.

"You _what_?" Watson replies, shocked. "Sherlock, your flat was demolished this morning and that wasn't even the highlight of our day. Where could you possibly be going?"

"Nowhere. Don't worry about me, John. You should get home to Rosie."

"Sherlock!" Watson calls out. But the detective was already striding away toward the street where he would inevitably hail a car.

* * *

As the cab turns onto Molly's street, Sherlock expects all the indicators of recent destruction to present themselves. Ribbons of smoke, the smell of charred wood, caution tape, crowds lingering on the sidewalks. But there was nothing of the sort.

In fact, Sherlock's jaw all but falls open as he lays eyes on Molly Hooper's perfectly-intact flat. The cabbie mutters something in the background but Sherlock ignores him, shoving some cash in his hand and stepping out of the car in a daze.

 _Could it be_? With a glimmer of hope in his heart, Sherlock's mind and pulse begin racing in double time. This didn't make any sense. What could Euros have hoped to gain from bluffing? Was the game really over, or was he walking into a trap?

When Sherlock can't stand it any longer, he dashes up to her front door and knocks urgently, simultaneously trying the doorknob. _Locked_.

"Molly! Molly, it's Sherlock. Please open up."

No answer.

Without hesitation, Sherlock fumbles around for the spare key which he knew she kept hidden in the artificial plant on her front steps.

"Molly!" he calls out again as he opens the door. Sherlock combs through her flat quickly, but Molly is nowhere to be found.

"She's at work," a familiar voice calls out unexpectedly from behind. "How did you get in here?" Lestrade asks, having just arrived to find the front door wide open.

"She keeps a spare key on the porch," Sherlock replies impatiently, rolling his eyes. "How do you know she's at Bart's?"

Lestrade holds up his cell phone with a confused half-smile.

"Oh." Sherlock quickly realizes he isn't thinking straight, despite his relief at knowing Molly is alive.

Several uniformed men enter the house, bringing with them two dogs and all sorts of equipment.

"She was working the night shift," Lestrade explains. "But she's on her way over now. In the meantime, we're sweeping the place to make sure it's clean."

"Good," Sherlock retorts weakly.

Greg senses his unease. "Look, Sherlock, we've got everything under control here. We'll make sure Molly is safe. There's no need for you to stay."

"I know, but I- I'd like to see her," Sherlock says as casually as possible, avoiding eye contact.

Lestrade hesitates, but ultimately can't hold his tongue. "Have you considered the possibility that maybe she doesn't want to see you right now?"

Sherlock stiffens uncomfortably. "You've seen the footage," he states knowingly.

"Of course I've seen the bloody footage," Lestrade admits. "They sent if over from Sherrinford straightaway."

Lestrade may not have been a keen man by Sherlock's definition, but he could sense the uncertainty in his normally-confident comrade. "Look, Sherlock, it's none of my business, but as a friend of both you _and_ Molly, I'm just not sure that you being here is the best thing right now."

"When have I ever been known to do the 'best thing' in any situation?" Sherlock remarks lightly with self-ridicule.

"Well you've got me there," Lestrade concedes, throwing his arms in the air and turning his attention to his fellow officers.

Sherlock observes Molly's flat openly for the first time. He'd been there before of course, but had never taken the time or made the effort to look around. The stylings were practical but also wishful. Muted colors and uncluttered surfaces mirrored her workplace. There were several plants littered throughout the living spaces, and next to her medical books stood a collection of works by the likes of Joseph Conrad, Robert Louis Stevenson and Johnathan Swift. _Interesting_. Molly clearly had an affinity for the tropics. Sherlock scolds himself for never having picked up on that in the past.

The detective loses track of time as he commits every detail of the flat to memory.

Not ten minutes after receiving the call from Lestrade, Molly walks through her door, overwhelmed by the number of police vehicles outside and officers running around scrutinizing her flat. However it isn't until she catches sight of Sherlock that Molly's breath catches in her throat. Even now, the familiar silhouette of his tall, lean form standing in the doorway of her kitchen with his back to her made the pathologist's heart skip a beat. _Damn you, Sherlock_ , she thinks silently. However just as Molly is wishing she could disappear, Sherlock senses that someone is watching him and turns around.

Sherlock Holmes had never given much thought to the euphoria of happiness until the moment he laid eyes on his dear friend Molly Hooper, alive and well. There she stood in her lab coat. Hair disheveled, as ever. With wide eyes and a deep sigh of relief, Sherlock's entire body relaxed, as if waking from a nightmare. "Molly." He says her name with genuine joy and disbelief, stepping forward with every intention of engulfing her in a warm, protective embrace. Only Molly puts a hand up and steps backward, away from him.

Sherlock is slightly offended, but not overly surprised by her reaction. "Molly please," he coaxes, "let me explain."

"You can't-" Molly struggles to form a sentence, even more than she usually did in his presence. "You can't be here, Sherlock. I don't know what's going on, but I don't want to see you right now."

 _Ouch_. That hurt more than it should've. Molly averts her eyes as she shoves past Sherlock to speak with the police.

The consulting detective stands frozen in place, numb and dumbfounded. His phone pings. Sherlock absentmindedly glances down at his cell. ' _Where are you? -M_ '

"I'll take over from here," Lestrade's familiar voice interrupts. "You should go home Sherlock. Go and be with your family."

Sherlock swallows and nods mechanically, turning his collar up as he steps out into the cold, night air.

* * *

 ** _A/N: Thanks for all the follows and reviews, guys! I really do appreciate it. Sorry for the gloomy chapter, but things are going to get better for Sherlock soon, I promise ;)_**


	3. Chapter 3

Almost instantaneously, a black car pulls up outside Molly's flat. Sherlock rolls his eyes as the window lowers to reveal Anthea in the back seat.

 _You clearly know where I am_ , Sherlock thinks in sarcastic response to his brother's text.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," Anthea greets in her usual, overly-rehearsed tone. Sherlock had never understood why, of all people, his brother tolerated _this_ insufferable woman as his assistant.

If it had been any other day, the consulting detective would've taken off down the sidewalk without so much as a second thought. But today had been anything but ordinary, so Sherlock disgruntledly slides into the back seat.

* * *

"Sherlock, for god's sake, where have you been?!" Mycroft asks irritably as his brother finally steps into his office.

"You clearly know the answer to that, seeing as one of your henchmen conveniently picked me up against my will."

Mycroft clenches his jaw. "Under normal circumstances I am exceptionally tolerant of your difficult attitude Sherlock, but these are far from normal circumstances. You could have at least texted me back."

"Oh, are we suddenly family again?"

Mycroft's posture stiffens, offended. "We've always been family, Sherlock. Unconventional, I'll give you, but family nonetheless. And while we're on the subject, you may as well know that our parents will be arriving any minute."

Sherlock isn't the least bit surprised by the announcement. He'd seen the butler carrying fresh linens toward the guest room on his way in. Not to mention that a quick glance over Anthea's shoulder during the car ride had been very telling.

Sherlock remains quiet and begins pacing the room, lost in thought.

"John's fine, in case you were wondering. Home with his daughter," Mycroft fills him in, for lack of better conversation. "I've put Mrs. Hudson up in a hotel for the time being, until the damage at Baker Street can be properly assessed and repaired."

"Uncharacteristically generous of you," Sherlock notes dryly.

"You'll also be pleased to hear that one of the Garrideb brothers survived."

Sherlock looks up, moderately interested. "Which one?"

"Nathan," Mycroft informs him. "The coastguard found him stranded atop some rocks just offshore the island. He's suffering from some severe bruising and mild hypothermia, but will be just fine in a couple of weeks."

"One less casualty in the Holmes family war," Sherlock remarks indifferently.

"So it would seem," Mycroft reflects, knowing exactly what was preoccupying his little brother's thoughts. "Now are we going to address the elephant in the room, or am I supposed to ignore your little outburst today and pretend it never happened?"

Sherlock looks sideways at his brother. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, drop the act Sherlock. I'm referring to Miss Hooper. You clearly have feelings for her."

"Regardless of my sentiments, I fail to see how that could be of any interest to you."

"Are you in love with her?" Mycroft asks directly, a hint of a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Sherlock finds himself in the very unusual position of being unable to supply an answer. "You'll forgive me if I don't feel comfortable with this conversation."

"So you _do_ love her."

"I don't know! I've only been emotionally cognizant for half a day. It's all very confusing," Sherlock exclaims, only half-joking.

"To say that you were very upset by her supposed demise would be an understatement, brother mine."

"How perceptive of you, Mycroft. Yes of course I was upset- she's my friend."

" _Mary_ was a friend, Sherlock. I was there when you lost her. This was... _different_ ," his brother notes in all seriousness. "This was impassioned."

"Is there a point to all this?" Sherlock demands tersely.

"If today was any indication, things have gotten out of hand, Sherlock. Now whether you continue to exploit Doctor Hooper for her professional resources is entirely up to you. But the poor girl nearly died because she's so tormented by your careless mixed messages. You need to _tell her_ Sherlock, one way or the other- once and for all."

* * *

 _ **A/N: More is on the way, very soon!**_


	4. Chapter 4

"Well… it could've been worse," Watson declares optimistically as he and Sherlock step into 221B for the first time since the explosion. "No structural damage to the building. And look- this guy survived," he remarks with amusement, reaching into the debris and presenting the fully-intact, headphone-wearing bison skull which normally hung on the far wall between the windows.

"So what do you think?" Mrs. Hudson asks eagerly. She'd returned to Baker Street straightaway as soon as the building had been declared safe. "Is it salvageable?"

"Well, with a bit of work, John and I should have this place back to normal in no time," Sherlock says confidently before stealing a hesitant glance at his friend. "That is… assuming you're interested in things returning to the way they were before."

Watson furrows his brow, thinking back to the message from Mary. ' _My Baker Street Boys_ ,' she had called them. John smiles at the memory. "I can't imagine it any other way," he admits candidly.

"Oh, wonderful! The boys are back in business," Mrs. Watson cries with joy. "Mary would be so pleased…"

* * *

Several days pass, and with a bit of hired help, John and Sherlock make good headway on their restoration of Baker Street. Sherlock is grateful for the distraction, however finds it difficult to focus as his thoughts are constantly wavering between Molly and Euros. He'd promised his family that he'd visit his sister and assess her state of mind, but he needed time to recover and strategize.

The walls are patched and the new flooring installed. Mycroft generously donates new furniture to the cause. He replaces Sherlock's chair with one of the exact same style and even includes a small crib for baby Rosie, who he assumed would be spending an inordinate amount of time at Baker Street. John is touched by the thoughtful gesture, but Sherlock remains convinced that his brother is merely attempting to buy back his trust through half-hearted generosity.

It was late afternoon on a Wednesday. After several hours of painting and wallpapering, John and Sherlock are about to call it a day when a soft knocking comes from the hall. The boys turn around to find an unexpected visitor standing in the doorway.

"Molly," Watson greets with surprise.

"Hello John," she says meekly, her eyes shifting sideways. "Sherlock," she adds with hesitation.

"Good afternoon Molly," Sherlock replies gently, afraid to say much of anything in fear of scaring her away.

She glances around at the remains of 221B Baker Street. "Wow. You guys have managed to recover quite a bit considering-" she stops herself, not wanting to be insensitive. "Well, anyway… I just wanted to come 'round and say I was sorry to hear about what happened and see if there was anything you needed. Greg filled me in," she explains nervously. Her eyes lock with Sherlock's.

"That's very kind of you Molly. _Very_ kind. We appreciate it," John assures her, but Molly's attention is clearly fixated on Sherlock. "Listen, why don't I give you two a minute," Doctor Watson volunteers, stepping out of the flat and heading downstairs. Mrs. Hudson crosses paths with him on her way up.

"Yoo hoo, Molly dear, is that you?!" she asks with enthusiasm. "You're just in time, love. I've got a kettle ready."

"Oh, thank you Mrs. Hudson, but I really wasn't intending to stay," Molly objects graciously.

 _She never was very good at making excuses_ , Sherlock notes internally.

"Nonsense," the sweet old woman insists. "Sit, dear. Relax. Have a cuppa with Sherlock."

Molly steals a glance at the detective, as if gauging his willingness. "Alright," she finally agrees, taking a seat on one of the tarp-covered chairs. "I suppose one cup won't hurt."

"Excellent," Mrs. Hudson exclaims with delight, pouring a cup for each of them. "Now, I'll be right downstairs you two. If you need anything, just give a shout."

Mrs. Hudson scurries back downstairs and Sherlock watches as Molly takes a nervous sip of her tea. He is desperately intrigued by her unexpected presence.

 _Shaky hands_. _Shortness of breath. Her pulse is clearly elevated._

"Ahem," she clears her throat finally. "Well Sherlock, I just wanted to- that is, I-"

"Molly, before you say anything, I need to get something off my chest," he interrupts, leaning forward and placing his cup and saucer on the tea table before him. Sherlock looks straight into Molly's eyes with sincere contrition. He can't hold it in any longer. "I'm sorry," he says simply. "Molly Hooper, I am so _so_ sorry, for everything I said to you the other day on the phone. Truly I am."

"Sherlock, it's fine, Lestrade explained-" she insists, mostly out of discomfort and not actual forgiveness.

"Right, but I need you to know that I would never, _ever_ do anything to hurt you, Molly. And I understand if you hate me for it," Sherlock continues. "It was unfair of me to put you in that position… even in those extreme circumstances, I should've- I should've found another way to ensure your safety."

He seems to be talking to himself at this point- scolding himself even, but Molly just looks at the man sitting across from her, dumbfounded. "I don't- I don't hate you, Sherlock," she assures him with a small smile. "I could _never_ hate you. That's the problem."

 _Dilated pupils_.

"I'm sorry, I don't follow," Sherlock admits naïvely.

Molly takes a deep breath.

 _Frequent swallowing indicates anxiety._

"Sherlock, my life hasn't been the same since I met you…"

"I'm sure that's not true," the detective chuckles uncomfortably, shifting in his chair.

"Please, just let me get this out, Sherlock. Or I might never have the courage to do it," Molly begs, unable to look at him.

Sherlock nods in silent agreement.

"I go through the motions of living like everyone else: work, home, feed the cat, go for drinks… but I'm secretly always waiting for the moments when you text me or stop by the lab unexpectedly and ask for my help. I live for those moments. Even though you don't seem to notice I'm there half the time, just being near you makes me happy."

Molly smiles to herself, and her cheeks flush pink.

Sherlock suppresses his urge to object. To assure Molly that she is absolutely worthy of noticing. But ultimately he knew she was right. He'd taken her for granted far too long…

"Do you know why I broke it off with Tom?" Molly asks rhetorically, because of course Sherlock had no idea. "He was away for a few weeks, on business, and my aunt had just recently passed from a heart attack. I was a bit depressed. Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. Lost five pounds actually. And when Tom came back- he took me in his arms and told me how much he missed me… But he didn't notice," Molly sighs, catching her breath. " _You_ would've noticed."

Sherlock is taken aback by her observation, unsure of how to respond. He didn't understand how Molly could regard him with such ardent admiration, despite his relentless mistreatment of her.

"Every time a man walks out of my life, I always find myself wondering the same thing." Molly looks down at her hands in embarrassment and speaks in barely a whisper. " _Why couldn't he have been more like Sherlock_?"

Her voice cracks and Molly bites her lip in a futile attempt at holding back tears.

Meanwhile, the consulting detective feels as if he'd been punched in the gut and had the air knocked out of him. Though he still isn't sure exactly why.

"It's silly, I know…"

"It's _not_ silly, Molly," Sherlock assures her. "Despite my blatant disregard of sentiment in the past, it's not silly to care about someone."

"I do care about you, Sherlock. I always have, and despite my best efforts to the contrary, I always will. But I don't want things to be weird between us, which is why…" she swallows, as if preparing to say something difficult. "I don't think we should see each other for awhile."

Sherlock furrows his brow, trying his best to remain calm. "I see."

"I just- I need some time to remember who I am without you…"

"I understand," Sherlock says. But he doesn't. He can hardly accept the multitude of emotions floating through his own head, much less comprehend Molly's intentions.

The pathologist looks down at her watch and is surprised by the time. "Oh bloody hell, I'll be late for work!" Molly exclaims, standing up in a rush. "Please be sure and thank Mrs. Hudson for the tea!"

Sherlock rises out of his chair and politely offers to take the cup off her hands. Molly shivers as his long fingers brush against her skin in the exchange. "Thank you," she manages weakly, darting off towards the door.

"Molly wait-" Sherlock captures her arm, halting her momentarily. "I meant what I said, you know. On the phone," he clarifies.

Molly's breathing hitches. "I know," she replies softly, strategically avoiding his icy blue gaze. _Just not in the same way I've always meant it…_ she thinks to herself. "Goodbye Sherlock."

He can't bring himself to say goodbye, so the detective says nothing at all and instead watches thoughtfully as Molly Hooper makes her way out of the building.


	5. Chapter 5

"So, did you two have a nice chat then?" John asks curiously as he re-enters the room.

"Oh please, there's hardly a consistent correlation to be drawn between the quality of a conversation and its content-"

"Jesus Sherlock! _What did she say_?" John clarifies through his frustration.

Sherlock straightens his posture and glances out the window for a moment, blankly. "She doesn't want to see me for a while," he admits, pulling the curtain aside to get a clear view of the street below. Molly was already out of sight.

"What, and you just let her leave?"

Sherlock turns his attention abruptly toward John. "What was I supposed to do?" he asks defensively. "Hold her here against her will."

"No, of course not Sherlock, but did you at least _tell her_?"

"Tell her what?"

Okay, now he was just stalling.

John balls his hands into fists as he often did when he was annoyed. "How you feel. Did you tell Molly how you feel?"

"I told her I meant what I said on the phone, yes. And then she proceeded to walk out my door."

John nods his head in understanding, as if he were some sort of expert on female behavior. "Okay. Well, I'm sorry things didn't work out differently. But I'm glad the two of you were able to have a mature conversation about it."

"Ugh, maturity is immensely overrated," Sherlock sighs dejectedly.

John rolls his eyes. "Right. Forgot who I was talking to. Listen, just give it time Sherlock. She'll come around. And who knows, maybe someday the two of you'll…"

The detective narrows his eyes at his counterpart, discouraging him from finishing that sentence. Mostly because Sherlock himself didn't know how he wanted it to end.

* * *

 ** _Three weeks later…_**

"Do you like it?" Mycroft asks proudly.

"It's a Stradivarius, I'd have to be an idiot not to like it. But what's the occasion?" Sherlock asks as he proceeds to tune the instrument.

"Did you not lose yours in the explosion?"

"I did. But I'm perfectly capable to replacing my own possessions, Mycroft. Why do you insist on showing off?"

"A simple 'thank you' would suffice," the elder Holmes taunts playfully.

Sherlock scoffs, with no intention of humoring him.

"I got a call from Sherrinford today. They tell me you've arranged a visit."

"Yes, next Monday. Why?"

"Are you sure this is the best idea, Sherlock? Are you truly prepared to face Euros so soon?"

"I promised our parents I would, and it might be nice if _one_ of their children didn't disappoin _t_ ," Sherlock retorts snarkily.

Mycroft clenches his jaw. "This isn't a game anymore, brother mine. I am genuinely concerned about your emotional stability since 'the incident' with our sister."

"Relax. It'll be fine. I'm not even going to talk to her."

"Then why on Earth are you going?"

Sherlock removes the violin from his shoulder, twirling the bow in his opposite hand. "I'm going to play her a song."

* * *

It had been 24 hours since Lestrade came to them with the case. A young girl in her twenties had been found dead in an abandoned warehouse with a series of highly unusual bruising patterns and gashes on her arms. However the motivation and actual cause of death remained unclear.

"Ugh, this would be so much easier if only I had an arm to experiment on!" Sherlock exclaims, shaking his hair restlessly as he paces the room.

"Yeah, so?" John looks up from the newspaper he'd been reading. "Why don't you pop over to Bart's and get one."

Sherlock gives John a disapproving look. "You know I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"No one but Molly has ever been willing to provide me with severed limbs for my research."

"So then ask Molly."

"Are you slipping into early dementia, or do you just ignore me when I speak? _Molly doesn't want to see me right now_ ," Sherlock reminds him.

John smiles at the irritation in his voice. Whether he'd admit it or not, the absence of Molly from their daily lives was driving Sherlock crazy.

"She did say 'awhile', right? That _is_ the exact word she used?" John presses. "What is 'awhile' anyway? Days? Weeks? Months? Bit nondescript really."

"Yes, thank you for that incredibly vague observation. What's your point, John?"

"My point is, if you play your cards right, I don't think Molly would object to seeing you."

"I don't think she'd be particularly pleased by my showing up either," Sherlock fires back. "Especially when I need something... No- Molly asked for space, and I'm giving her space."

John purses his lips and turns his attention back to the paper. _Look at that_ , he thinks to himself. _Sherlock Holmes acting like a rational human being. Mary dear, our boy is growing up…_

* * *

 ** _A/N: Sorry for the short chapter, but the good stuff is coming up next!_**


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock goes over the case again in his mind. He'd spent the better part of the night pouring over photos of the victim and referencing his medical books, scribbling notes to himself in half-delirium. Despite their brutal maiming, there was no way the injuries sustained to the girl's arms were the cause of death. Every gash had missed the major arteries. But how? And more importantly, why?

"Ah, obvious. Obvious!" Sherlock exclaims aloud to himself. "I've been far too slow," he continues, whipping out his cell phone and immediately dialing DI Lestrade.

"Hello?"

"She's a medical student," Sherlock announces without introduction.

"What, Angela Carson? Yeah I know, we ID'd the body yesterday. She was attending Saint George."

"Yes, but the lacerations on her arms? She did it to herself."

"I'm sorry, _what_?" Lestrade asks in utter disbelief.

"The bruises on her arms are indicative of a high-tensile nylon rope. She was tied up, yes, but the gashes are self-inflicted."

"How do you reckon?" Greg presses, waiting for the inevitably far-fetched but eerily-accurate explanation.

The consulting detective smirks on the other end of the line, realizing that, as usual, Scotland Yard was blind to the obvious. To be fair though, Sherlock had been slower than usual with this one.

"The gashes are all more or less perpendicular to the bruises," he begins, "suggesting she was trying to escape bondage. You found her in a warehouse. She was obviously tied up and abandoned. Once left alone, she likely found a nail or something sharp which she attempted to use to cut herself free. The rope was unusually strong however, and she ended up doing more harm than good. Somehow though, she managed to avoid nicking any of the major arteries- very impressive- so the girl obviously had a thorough understanding of anatomy."

"Okay, but how did she die then? And why didn't we find any rope at the crime scene?"

"Well that's where things get really interesting," Sherlock replies. "Whoever abducted her had no intention of killing her in the first place. Something of a more threatening or sexual nature, no doubt. They tied her up but left her alive, only returning to find her dead later."

"Hold on now-"

"She died from blood poisoning," Sherlock explains hastily. "Picked it up from whatever rusty object she cut herself on. Probably only lasted a handful of hours once the bacteria entered her system. The abductor must've returned to the crime scene, found her dead and then proceeded to clean up all the evidence of having been there in the first place. Whoever it was, they knew how to thoroughly sterilize the environment. Clearly someone of medical training. You won't have to look any further than her school or place of work."

"Unbelievable..." Lestrade sighs, once again overwhelmed by Sherlock's ability to see through just about everything.

"It's hardly the most unusual of cases."

"Alright well, thanks for the tip. I'll get on it and let you know when I've caught the perp."

Sherlock hangs up with a cocky smile on his face. He couldn't wait to tell John. In fact, he decides to head over and pay him a visit straightaway.

* * *

Sherlock knocks on the door, eager to fill John in on his new findings. However, he is thoroughly surprised when Molly appears before him with Rosie in her arms. John hadn't mentioned she was still babysitting for him...

"Ah, Molly," Sherlock greets uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize- that is, I was expecting John. I'll just come back later then."

"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous," Molly replies. "John should be back any minute now. Come in."

The detective is relieved by her cordial behavior. It had been several weeks since they'd spoken and he wasn't sure where they stood.

"So how've you been?" Sherlock asks awkwardly, trying his best to make conversation.

"I'm well, thanks," she manages. "You?"

"Oh fine. And how's our little Rosie doing?" he asks, wiggling a playful finger at the girl with a smile.

"Oh, she's a doll," Molly answers happily. "Hardly fusses compared to before."

"That's a good girl," Sherlock praises in a child-like voice, reaching for her.

Molly goes lightheaded as Sherlock takes the baby into his arms. Her mind is immediately filled with fantasies of she and the consulting detective having children of their own. And _not_ for the first time. Blushing noticeably, she realizes her feelings toward him haven't faded in the least. If time apart wasn't doing anything, Molly wasn't sure how to address the problem.

"You alright?" Sherlock inquires, noting the concern in her absent expression as he bounces Rosamund in his arms.

"Yeah, of course. I'm fine!" Molly answers a bit too eagerly. "Let me just- I should put Rosie down for her afternoon nap."

"I'll do it. It's no trouble," Sherlock offers, promptly heading toward the nursery where he deposits her into the crib.

Molly leans over and covers the child with a little pink blanket, rubbing Rosie's head gently with her thumb. "You go to sleep now- before your daddy gets home," she says in a calm, even voice.

Sherlock is struck by a sudden wave of admiration for Molly. Standing beside her, he watches, truly mesmerized as she calms the baby to sleep as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Warm rays of afternoon sun bathed the nursery in gentle light, which probably aided in Rosie's contentment. However, Sherlock was more interested in the golden glow it produced against Molly's hair. What a strange thing to notice...

" _You need to tell her Sherlock,"_ Mycroft had said. _"One way or the other- once and for all."_

Sherlock is haunted by his brother's words. He was right. It wasn't fair to keep things so ambiguous between he and Molly. He needed to make a decision and act on it- for both their sakes. On the one hand, the detective had always abhorred sentiment, but Molly had appeared in his thoughts so frequently these days that it was beginning to affect his work. Something needed to be done...

Without overthinking it, Sherlock steps closer, slipping an arm lightly around Molly's waist. She shivers at his unexpected touch, her pulse skyrocketing at the surprise of it.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Molly asks, flustered by his nearness.

"It's… an experiment," he breathes nervously into her neck. Sherlock closes the remainder of space between them as she turns around to face him.

"I'm not an experiment," Molly reminds him in a desperate whisper, out of courtesy to baby Rosie. However, her resolve wavers as his mouth hovers just inches above hers.

"No, you're not," Sherlock agrees. "But _love_ is perhaps the greatest experiment of all, is it not?"

 _Love?_ Did Sherlock Holmes seriously just imply that he might _love_ her?

Molly's mind goes completely blank as their lips meet for the first time. Sherlock, on the other hand, is hyper-attuned to the new sensation. Molly's bottom lip is rough along the inner edge, slightly chapped from her nervous habit of chewing it. Her skin smells of almonds, with just a hint of sweetness from the drug-store lotion she uses.

Sherlock fumbles a bit before his second hand finds its' way around the back of her neck, pulling Molly into him ever-so-slightly. He finds a strange satisfaction in being able to feel her pulse racing beneath her skin, knowing he was the cause. He grins slyly against her mouth.

Still stunned, Molly parts her lips, gasping for air and is astounded when Sherlock continues to kiss her with seemingly genuine intentions.

 _Is this really happening?_ Molly wonders in disbelief. It was as if one of her girlish fantasies had been pulled from the recesses of her mind and brought to life. _Sherlock Holmes is kissing me_ , she acknowledges with a smile as she timidly begins kissing him back.

Molly is afraid to open her eyes when Sherlock finally pulls away, for fear that the moment may disappear. She trembles in his arms, nervous beyond reason as Sherlock smooths her hair.

"So- any conclusions then?" she asks weakly, immediately regretting her decision to speak, as both her voice and the words she uttered felt out of place in the moment.

"Bit premature I think," Sherlock replies in that low, velvety tone which drove Molly crazy. "Need to collect more data." His blue eyes pierce through to her very soul.

The pathologist blushes with embarrassment and exhilaration. Sherlock silently observes her- committing everything about her current physical state to memory.

"Molly," he finally says. "I'm not really good at this sort of thing, but would you-"

His train of thought is abruptly interrupted as the front door swings open with enthusiasm. "I'm back!"

"John!" Molly gasps anxiously, pushing against Sherlock's chest as she maneuvers around him and out of the room.

 _This can't be happening,_ Sherlock mutters to himself in disbelief, cursing his best friend's extraordinarily inopportune timing. It takes the world's only consulting detective a couple of moments to regain his composure before following Molly out into the living room.

"Oh, Sherlock," John notes with surprise. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"No," the detective confirms unenthusiastically. "I just stopped by on a whim to give you an update on the case."

"Ah, great. So Molly, how's Rosie? Didn't give you too much trouble, I hope?"

"No, no, course not. She's just down for her nap."

"Well thank you, as ever, for coming over on such short notice. You're a life saver," John says gratefully, giving her a friendly kiss on the cheek.

"It's nothing," Molly assures him, glancing across the room at Sherlock. "I should probably get going, though."

The detective stiffens, slightly concerned by her eagerness to leave.

"There's no rush," John asserts cluelessly. "You can stay for dinner if you like."

"Thank you, but I can't. I've got this umm- this thing," Molly stumbles, losing her train of thought and nearly tripping over the rug. Sherlock reaches out and catches her before she has the chance to fall. His cool, strong hands linger against her skin just a bit longer than necessary. Molly's heart nearly jumps out of her chest. "I'll see you soon," she says hurriedly, making her way out the door.

John finally catches on to the hint of awkwardness in the air. "What was that about?"

* * *

 _ **A/N: Thank you for all the favorites, follows and reviews! If you keep reading, I'll keep writing :)**_


	7. Chapter 7

"I may have just made a colossal mistake…" Sherlock laments out loud. He was speaking mostly to himself, but secretly hoping John could provide some insight. After all, this was one of few areas where the good Doctor's knowledge surpassed his own.

"What are you talking about?" John laughs, leisurely tossing his keys down on the dining table. It was blatantly uncharacteristic of Sherlock to admit fault in any circumstance.

"I kissed Molly," the detective blurts outright.

Watson's eyebrows shoot up and his eyes widen into gigantic orbs as he shifts his weight, unable to believe his ears. "I'm sorry, you _what_?"

"Oh, you heard me," Sherlock grumbles with irritation. "Don't play stupid John."

"I heard something, yeah. But my ears must be playing tricks on me because I swear you just said that you _kissed_ Molly Hooper… Our Molly? The one that just walked out my front door?"

"Clearly I was wrong to divulge this information," Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes. He shoves his hands into his gloves one by one as if he were preparing to leave.

"No, no, now hang on!" John objects as Sherlock adjusts his scarf. "I'm done poking fun, I promise. Stay. Tell me what happened."

"I already told you what happened, but you seem to find it amusingly implausible."

"You kissed Molly," Watson states once more for the record.

"Yes."

The doctor nods. "And what brought this on?"

"I was… curious," Sherlock admits vaguely. "She's been very prevalent in my thoughts as of late, and it seemed as good a way as any to shed some light on the subject."

John can't help but smirk with amusement, restraining himself from making what would inevitably be an ill-received comment. But seriously, _it was about damn time_. "Okay, so you kissed her. And what was Molly's reaction?"

"Well, she didn't stop me…" Sherlock says with a hint of defense in his voice.

"That's always a good sign," John confirms, barely able to contain his laughter.

Sherlock finally gives in and reluctantly takes a seat on the couch. All of a sudden Watson feels as if he were dealing with a client.

"I haven't been able to stop thinking about her John. Not since…"

"You told her you loved her?" Watson supplies indelicately.

"Yes, that," the detective confesses unenthusiastically.

John holds up a hand before his friend can continue. "Sherlock, is there any infinitesimal possibility that you actually care for Molly in a romantic way?"

"Well that's what I was trying to figure out now, isn't it?!" Sherlock exclaims with frustration.

"You weren't just acting out of guilt then?" John probes, concerned for Molly's well-being as much as Sherlock's.

"I don't think so, no. But it's difficult to be sure."

"Well, did you enjoy it?" John asks, realizing he was going to have to walk Sherlock through this step by step. "The kiss, I mean. Did you enjoy it?"

Sherlock briefly recalls the intimate exchange from earlier. "It wasn't… _wholly unpleasant_ ," he admits uncomfortably.

"Jesus-" Watson rubs his forehead in disbelief.

"Look, I'm not a sentimental man, John."

"Maybe not in the past," John affirms. "But you're different now. People _change_ Sherlock. It doesn't mean you're any less of a person now because you're in love."

"I know," Sherlock acknowledges calmly. "And I do love Molly, but I just don't think I will ever be capable of loving someone… _normally_."

John cocks his head in surprise. "There's nothing normal about you Sherlock. There never has been. Molly knows that, and she likes you in spite of it."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "What's your point?"

"My point is, you don't have to alter yourself to be in a relationship... you just have to learn how to be yourself _with_ Molly."

"And you think that will work?"

"Okay, be yourself- only _nicer_ ," he clarifies in good spirit. John takes a breath, seriously evaluating the situation. "Look, Sherlock- what's the worst that could happen? Things don't work out between the two of you. But how will you know unless you give it a chance? If you care about Molly _at all_ , then you owe it to yourself and to her to at least give it a try."

Sherlock is unexpectedly impressed with John's advice. It seemed a logical enough path. Surely he and Molly could work something out. That settled it then. He would text her first thing in the morning. Satisfied, the detective stands to leave.

"Oh Sherlock, you mentioned something about the case earlier. What was it?" John asks out of lingering curiosity.

"What? Oh that. Solved it. Tediously simple really. Greg should have the guilty party in custody by sundown."

Watson is unable to hide his surprise. That was quick even by Sherlock's standards. "Right then. I guess I'll be 'round tomorrow to work on the blog."

"Great," Sherlock agrees with enthusiasm. The atmosphere in the room had changed dramatically.

"You're awfully chipper all of sudden," John notes with skepticism.

"Well, you know me. Always fired up when I have a new case."

"New case?"

"Weren't you listening to the words coming out of your own mouth a minute ago? I'm going to win over Molly Hooper," Sherlock announces with a gleam in his eye. "The game, dear Watson, is on!"


End file.
